


beca mitchell hates sporks (and all ridiculous-looking kitchen utensils in general)

by HamstersAndLunchboxes



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Based on a Tumblr Post, Beca has a thing for blondes, Beca really hates sporks, Beca's dad is one sketchy dude, Blondes who turn out to be redheads?, F/F, I promise I'm a good writer though, bechloe - Freeform, i honestly don't know how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 23:20:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13600581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HamstersAndLunchboxes/pseuds/HamstersAndLunchboxes
Summary: “Beca knew her dad was a pretty shady dude. But she never expected to end up in a situation that could easily be in one of the movies Jesse made her watch.If Beca was scared before (because of course, she was dragged into a car in the middle of the day while walking a dog Amy asked her to look after when she left to visit Bumper in LA [Vegas, for this fic]), now she’s just pissed. This chick is annoying as fuck wearing this impossibly smug smirk [and] Beca itched to punch off her face.”This prompt came across my Tumblr dash and I sprinted to my laptop. Was gonna be a oneshot but then the first part was like 6k words, so it'll have about five chapters, maybe an epilogue.





	beca mitchell hates sporks (and all ridiculous-looking kitchen utensils in general)

**Author's Note:**

> Bechloe...what can I say about this pairing, about the fandom behind this pairing. You guys are incredible, seriously. And if we don't get that kiss on March 20, at least we have all of you amazing fic writers, and manip makers, and artists, and video creators, and whoever else I missed. I loved the Bechloe community, it's SO receptive and Bechloe is one of the pairings that helped me come to terms with my sexuality. In honor of these to awa-awesome nerds and my love for them and their movies, I had to write this mini-fic.
> 
> I hope I do the prompt justice, friends! 
> 
> PS, I'm calling Beca's boss 'Key' since he's played by Key from 'Key and Peele' and he was never given an actual name, just so there's no confusion.
> 
> PPS, this was beta'd by me, so all mistakes are mine, as usual!
> 
> PPPS, I own nothing!

There were a lot of relatively intertwined events that led to the kidnapping of Beca Mitchell, DJ Extraordinaire. Her moderate fame, her roommate being Fat Amy (which she probably should have reconsidered), Fat Amy’s decision to get a small dog, Fat Amy leaving her for the weekend to visit some guy named Bumper.

Okay, so really, it was sort of Amy’s fault.

And her dad’s for being an incredibly sketchy guy to begin with, but even so, that was only like, thirty percent of the reason she was able to get stuck in her messy predicament in the first place.

Beca had always been stubborn. It was one of several endearing (obstinate) hallmarks of her personality. So when her father, Henry Mitchell, wanted her to settle down at a nice four year college after high school, and get a degree, Beca just  _ had _ to play Devil’s Advocate. 

See, music was Beca’s passion. It always had been. It got her through her parents’ divorce, through her mother’s diagnosis of stage four breast cancer, through her mother’s passing. Through her move to Atlanta, Georgia for her senior year of high school.

The move from Seattle to Atlanta was a long process that Beca was barely apart of. She  _ barely _ knew her father or…anything about him really. After he walked out on them when she was twelve, he sort of dropped off the map. The whole instance seemed like an out of body experience for the small brunette, to have to pack up and haul ass across the country to live with a man who was practically a stranger to her, but she dealt with it. Music was her constant. She poured her heart, and soul, and unshed tears into her mixes, and they were  _ good _ . That wasn’t Beca tooting her own horn, either. She had ears and the few friends (read: acquaintances) she had had told her so. 

So when Henry Mitchell told her that she should just settle at the local university (Barton or Barden or something stupid), she’d scoffed and told her father she was moving to LA. The news didn’t make Henry mad, but rather it made him uneasy. He immediately tried to convince her otherwise, but Beca was stubborn. She’d worked throughout high school in Seattle, and in Atlanta, and she had money saved up. Luke, the radio station manager from Seattle where she had worked in her junior year, had contacts in the City of Angels. Beca was determined.

Henry never gave up, though. He tried to convince Beca otherwise up until moving day, but the little brunette with a big attitude and huge headphones left without a spare glance. She never once considered the possibility that her father was trying to keep her safe.

xXx

The week before Beca moved to LA was spent on Craigslist looking for a roommate. Beca knew that she should have looked  _ much _ earlier, but she had severely misjudged the cost of living in California. The money she’d stockpiled from working throughout high school could have got her her own place, but she didn’t know how long it would last and refused to take any chances.

The first five days were spent on relatively safe websites, but Beca didn’t  _ do _ people and everyone’s profile was too fake for her to handle. Of course, she knew Craigslist was a horrible option and there was a good chance her future roommate could be a serial killer, but Beca was the type of person who would rather deal with a murderer than an honest-to-goodness ‘roomie’ who would want to spend time with her and be ‘best friends forever.’

The day before her flight was spent messaging some chick who called herself ‘Fat Amy’ so ‘twig bitches didn’t do it behind her back.’ She had been living there for six months, since January, and was turning nineteen in August. Her old roommate had been one Florencia Fuentes who had recently disappeared. When Beca, somewhat (read: very) alarmed, asked Fat Amy if she’d contacted LAPD, Fat Amy assured her Flo disappeared a lot, sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks. But it had been a month, and Fat Amy was struggling to pay rent, so it wasn’t a permanent gig. Just until Flo got back. 

Beca had figured that that was the best offer she was going to get on such short notice, so she let Fat Amy know she’d be in LA within a couple days and sent the other woman her flight information. After letting Beca know that she had very busy nights (whatever that meant), Fat Amy assured Beca she’d be there with a big ass sign and one of her hot boyfriends.

Was Beca worried that she was moving in with a possible psychopath and her questionably absent roommate? A little. But she was also buzzing with excitement about finally following her dreams. Yes, Fat Amy was a bit odd, but she was funny, and even made Beca snort out a chuckle a few times. This was probably the best she was going to get.

xXx

Fat Amy and Beca clicked. And Beca didn’t click with  _ anybody, ever. _ Actually, Beca clicked with their entire building. 

There were three separate apartments in their building. Her and Fat Amy lived on the bottom floor, right above a bar owned by an African American girl named Cynthia-Rose. The floor above them was occupied by a busty brunette named Stacie who bartended for CR. She lived alone (and was more than capable, from the generosity of the bar’s patrons [and the generosity of her breasts]). The top floor was occupied by two boys, Benji and Jesse. Benji was a street magician with an incredible singing voice and Jesse was the other bartender downstairs (who  _ also _ had an amazing singing voice).

They all sorta worked well together. Jesse had been annoying at first, but he also looked like a puppy with his floppy brown hair and and big eyes the same color. He shared Beca’s love for music, but he had an affinity for movies that Beca just couldn’t get behind. Even though he worked as a bartender, he had an internship with a company that scored movies, which was his ultimate dream. When they’d first met, he tried to get the little DJ to go on a date with him, but struck out nearly immediately. He wasn’t heartbroken when Beca told him she was gay–in fact, he was stoked. Jesse declared himself Beca’s very own ‘lesbro’ and assured her that if she ever needed a wingman, he was her guy. Beca, in response, punched him in the stomach and called him a nerd.

Benji was Jesse’s best friend. The two had grown up together and went to the same high school. Both decided to skip the college life and do what they loved, and it was easier for them to do it together to save money.  He was a street performer, doing magic tricks and singing, which brought in a surprising sum, but he also had a part time job at Subway. His YouTube channel had over a hundred thousand followers and he was sure he would be the next Justin Bieber. (Beca had tried to convince Benji that that  _ wasn’t _ a good thing, but he was too excitable, and she couldn’t sway him otherwise.)

Stacie had also come onto Beca when she moved into the building, the two weeks after she moved in (and a week after she’d turned down Jesse). The building’s tenants were all at the bar and having a good time. Cynthia Rose was paying Beca to spin some tracks that night and she’d brought in a crowd it. Beca supposed, looking back on it, that gig was what had started to spread her name as DJ Young Grasshopper. (The name had been voted on a week before when Cynthia Rose made posters and they all decided Beca needed a cool name.) But after Beca let the setlist go by itself and the night was dying down, Stacie had propositioned the small DJ. Both had had too much tequila for their own good and ended up falling in bed together. 

(“This isn’t going to get awkward, is it?”

“He’s a Hunter,” Stacie had assured her. “Don’t worry. Casual is my middle name, Mitchell.”)

So things weren’t awkward between her and Stacie, and yeah, the two had a mutual agreement to help each other out, but neither one made a habit of it.

Cynthia-Rose and the little DJ had gotten along from the start. She owned a little place uptown with her girlfriend, but she frequented her own bar enough, which was co-signed by Fat Amy (which made a lot of sense, considering the name of the bar was The Fat Dingo B*tch). Beca hadn’t met CR’s person, but from stories, she sounded awesome. CR assured Beca she’d bring her around one night and maybe the two could go on a double date one day, once Beca found love. Beca had wrinkled her nose at the thought and Cynthia Rose had laughed. “I wasn’t looking for it either, Mitchell. It hits you when you least expect it.”

Fat Amy was…Fat Amy. Honestly, Beca loved her, but she was seriously out in left field. The blonde had late nights, sometimes with her hot boyfriends, sometimes doing gigs as ‘Fat Amy Winehouse’ or ‘Fat Amy Poehler’ or whatever else. She often liked to regale Beca with tales of her wrestling alligators (or was it crocodiles?) and jumping off of exploding boats and they usually sounded fake, but Beca loved a good story and Amy was a great storyteller. 

So the whole building sort of got along like a house on fire. And for the first time in a long time, Beca felt like she was home.

xXx

Her job at the internship sucked  _ ass _ . It had been two years and she was still getting coffee and making lunch runs. Florencia Fuentes, Amy’s original roommate, had apparently been deported to Guatemala. (Beca had been alarmed, but Amy shrugged it off, and the DJ was seriously starting to reconsider their roommate agreement.) Beca had never been stretched so thin, between her job at Residual Heat and DJing various clubs as DJ Young Grasshopper. The DJing gigs paid well and her name in the music industry was growing quite steadily, but since she did so under a guise, she wasn’t recognized at her internship. To nearly all her gigs, she wore a black sweatshirt with the hood up and skinny jeans with beat up Converse, but she always left her sleeves rolled up, revealing the grasshopper tattoo. It was trademark, she supposed. 

Her boss talked about DJ Young Grasshopper enough, wishing her could get ahold of her, but Beca was antisocial and refused to step forward. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t. She knew that if she did, that was it. She’d get the fame and the stardom (which wasn’t appealing to her) and probably be launched into the music industry. But she’d be launched as an artist, not a producer, and then she’d get her own producer, someone who would tweak her songs until they weren’t her songs anymore. And she didn’t even  _ write _ , she mixed. Sometimes she’d throw some original lyrics and beats together and weave them with an current chart topper, but that was the closest she got to being original, so she wasn’t sure why her boss was so hellbent on finding out her identity.

It didn’t matter. What did matter was that DJ Young Grasshopper was an entity, and one that LA was desperate to find the person behind. And Beca Mitchell was still just Beca Mitchell, station intern. It was really starting to get to her, too, and everyone could tell. After snapping at Dax in a particularly nasty way one day, her boss sent her home to get some rest. She’d been there six days that week, after all.

When Beca got home, she heard people in the living room cooing at…at  _ something _ , and she groaned. She’d been hoping Amy would have one of her late nights so she could let Netflix run mindlessly and eat pizza and sulk.

She heard Stacie squeal and Beca dropped her coat across one of the dining room chairs, sweeping into the living space. “Okay, what the hell– _ what the hell is that?! _ ”

All of Beca’s acquaintances (read: friends) sat in a circle on the living room floor, with a small, yippy ball of fluff bouncing between them. When it zoned in on Beca, it barked once and made a beeline for the small DJ, jumping between Jesse and Benji. Beca raised an incredulous eyebrow as it stood up to balance on Beca’s legs. Its furry little tail was wagging at such a pace, Beca could barely see it.

No one said a word.

“Well, if no one’s going to tell me what  _ this _ is…” Beca picked up the small dog and walked to the kitchen door, making sure to open it loudly and slowly. As soon as she did, she heard yelling from the living room, and a loud crash, and a second later, all her friends were crowded in the kitchen, yelling at once. Beca stood frozen, small, wiggling dog in one hand, the other holding the front door open.

“Okay,  _ okay _ ,  _ OKAY _ !” Fat Amy finally yelled. Everyone went quiet. “Beca…I’d like you to meet the newest member of our family. This is our son…Spork.”

Beca’s eyes slid from Amy, to the little dog ( _ Spork? _ ), and then back to Amy. “You named him after a kitchen utensil that no one’s used since the late nineties?”

“Well, it was either that or The Notorious D.O.G., but Stacie said that’d be a mouthful.”

“Hang on, yes, I said that, but you could have called him Deeogee for short,” Stacie interjected.

“No, Stace, it has to be all or nothing. And,” Amy blew out a breath, continuing, her eyes trained on the dog in Beca’s grasp. “And he grabbed the spork out of my hand when I was eating my Lo Mein noodles and it was like the planets aligned, Mitchell.” Her voice was low and soft and Beca blew out a noise of exasperation. “We didn’t name him Spork…The Chinese takeout chose him. The spork chose our son, Beca.”

Beca shut the front door and handed Jesse the dog, blowing past them. “I’m not helping take care of him! And he’s not my son!”

“Our son! Beca, you’re the dad, you have to!” Amy argued.

“Absent fathers are a thing!”

The last thing Beca heard before she shut her bedroom door was, “You can’t say that just because he has brown fur!”

xXx

And that’s pretty much how Beca Mitchell ended up living in LA with Amy and Spork as a semi-famous DJ, but only semi because no one knew it was actually her. Amy primarily took care of Spork because Beca insisted that she wanted nothing to do with the tiny dog. However, Beca did (grudgingly) feed him and let him out when Amy was busy, but she never recalled agreeing to  _ actually _ taking care of him.

“What do you mean you’re going to be gone this weekend?” Beca demanded through a mouthful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. 

It was a dreary Friday morning. It’d been raining most of the week, putting a damper on the mood of the majority of the building, with the exception of Benji, who loved the sound of thunderstorms. It was lightly sprinkling outside and Beca was dreading walking to the studio. It was just down the block, but in the rain, it meant getting soaked and Beca fancied herself a cat. Her hair got frizzy and she got cranky and rain plus Beca usually equalled more-grumpy-than-usual Beca. The news that Amy would be gone for the weekend was the icing on the cake.

“Oh, uhhhh…mmmm, well, I sorta meant what I said,” Amy said flippantly, “unless you’d like to me try in Spanish or some other foreign language…” She had Spork nestled under one arm and she was using the other to flip pancakes. Or, she was trying to flip pancakes. Beca closed her eyes and sighed as a half-cooked pancake slipped off the spatula onto the ground, splattering batter onto the tile flooring while Amy muttered curse words under her breath and kept speaking: 

“One of my hot boyfriends invited me for a weekend in Vegas. Oh, so I’m gonna need the car too…” Amy said as she let Spork on the ground, who immediately started lapping at the flopped pancake. 

“Oh really?” Beca mused while she swallowed. “Which one? Kyle? Dustin? Connor? Or the mysterious hunk of man candy you’ve refused to name since six months ago but you seem very invested in?” 

Beca would have laughed as Amy spun around, hitting the handle of the pan and sending it flying across the counter, except she knew Amy had no sense of responsibility when it came to cleaning, so she’d probably have to mop up the mess later.

“What what?” Amy asked, feigning confusion. Her eyes flickered between Beca and  _ anywhere _ else. “I don’t have a secret hunk of man candy who I sneak off with in the night every other weekend of have amazing sex with.”

Beca frowned and lifted another spoonful of cereal to her mouth. “I never said anything about bimonthly sex, Ames.”

“Oh, it seems that you did not…huh…” Amy busied herself with dumping the messed up pancakes in the trash and whistling an obscene tune that was disastrously off-key. Beca merely raised an eyebrow at her roommate, but didn’t say a word. Amy didn’t clean up after herself often and there was no way Beca was going to stop her.

“You know you can tell me anything, Amy,” Beca said. “I’m not gonna like, judge you, or anything.”

Amy glanced at Beca over her shoulder, “No, yeah, I know. But Beca…” She laughed nervously. “I told you I  _ didn’t _ have a scheduled bimonthly hookup, do you even listen?” Her nervous laughter escalated while Beca watched on, drinking her milk, eyebrows raised. Eventually, Fat Amy fell into a fit of coughs. 

“Right, oh-kay,” Beca said, sliding off the stool at the counter in their kitchen. “So I’m going to get ready for work––”

“His name is Bumper,” Amy blurted. Beca smirked to herself and motioned for her roommate to go on. “We met at one of my jelly wrestling tournaments and he bought me one of those huge pickles on a stick and…and then he showed me  _ his _ pickle––”

Beca yelped, sticking her fingers in her ears. “Jesus Christ, ohmygod, la la la la la la la, I don’t need details!” When Beca didn’t hear Amy saying anything else, she walked her bowl to the sink. “Wait, did you say his name was Bumper? Like…on a car?”

“Yeah, it’s really sexy and hardcore, right?” Amy made a show of licking her lips and winked.

Beca exhaled with a resigned smile. “Gross,” she whispered, more to herself than for Amy’s benefit. “No, yeah, that’s really…sexy.” She frowned. “Um, Amy, do you, like, know anything else about this guy?”

Amy made a high-pitched sound in the back of her throat and picked up Spork, who had just finished licking the pancake batter off the floor. “He works…sometimes…as an entertainer––”

“Oh my god, Amy, are you hooking up with a stripper?” Beca asked, bowl in her hand momentarily forgotten.

“What? No! He puts on shows for, like, children’s parties and baby showers and bingo nights at nursing homes.”

Beca squinted at that and put her bowl in the dishwasher. “Right. Yeah, that’s a normal thing. So, uh, what kind of shows?” She heard Amy mutter something under her breath while she opened the refrigerator door to put back the milk. “What was that?”

“Oh, uh, um, he, um, you know…performs as a…clown act; it makes some big money, actually…” Amy was purposefully looking anywhere  _ except _ at Beca and scratching Spork behind the ears. 

Beca held back her laughter and inhaled through her nose. “No, yeah, that’s respectable, Ames, I support you and…Bumper…” She was waiting for a last name, but she didn’t get one. Knowing Fat Amy though, she probably didn’t know it. 

“Thank you, Beca, that’s great. So yeah, I’m gonna need the car for the weekend, like I said––”

“Okay, wait, I don’t support  _ that _ ––”

“Jesus Christ, Beca, don’t make this about you for once!”

Beca put up a finger, but then closed her mouth abruptly and sighed. “You know what, you’re right, Amy, I don’t need the car to get to my job or go grocery shopping or do adult things.  _ You _ take the car on your five hour drive to Vegas for a weekend with your bimonthly hookup because that’s more important than being a functional member of society.” 

If Amy noticed that Beca’s statements were literally  _ dripping _ with sarcasm, she didn’t comment on it. Instead, she nodded firmly. “Thank you. I’m going to start packing now.” With one last nod at Beca, Amy disappeared into her room with Spork.

Beca did her best to clean up the rest of the kitchen before leaving for the studio. It wasn’t that hard; their kitchen wasn’t that big (nor was their apartment in general). She wiped down the island and the counter and the dining table, and flipped the switch on the dishwasher to turn it on. 

She took one last look around the apartment before shutting the door to head to work;  she could worry about the piles of laundry that needed folded later.

xXx

Work was exhausting. It usually was, but today was rougher than usual. Her boss had flipped out on Dax and stormed out. Dax then proceeded to spill sriracha sauce on one of the sub-controllers, causing it to spark and smoke. She could barely focus on any of her tasks with Dax flitting around, trying to fix the mess before their boss got back.

When Key did, in fact, get back, Beca was pretty sure one of the blood vessels in his forehead popped. So he had everyone on unpaid overtime and Dax was doing laps and before Beca knew it, it was nearly midnight and she was fighting to keep her eyes open. Most of the office had already taken off except for Key, Dax (who ran into the wall on his way out trying to avoid their boss), and herself. Her boss clapped her on the shoulder and said, “Good job, Reggie, take tomorrow off,” before letting her leave.

Beca nearly passed out at her desk when he shut out the remainder of the lights, plunging the office into darkness.

xXx

Amy was gone when Beca got back. At the door, she was met with Spork, who yipped excitedly as she walked in, jumping at her ankles. She groaned. She’d forgotten that the dog would be her responsibility for the weekend with Amy being in Vegas. On the island in the kitchen was a note left for her in Amy’s messy scrawl.

_ Beca, _

_ -Let out Spork _

_ -Feed Spork _

_ -Take Spork for daily walks _

_ -Feed yourself _

_ Amy _

_ (PS, do not try to contact me unless Spork is dying.) _

Okay, so it didn’t matter if Beca was dying, but the small Pekapoo, on the other hand…whatever. Beca made a small noise of annoyance in the back of her throat. Amy probably already let the dog out once today, right…? That was enough…Beca could sleep.

She’d handle the dog in the morning.

Beca fell on her bed in her skinny jeans and black v-neck. She was too tired and too stressed to care. Spork jumped on her bed (which Beca did  _ not _ allow) and curled up next to her, nuzzled into her side. Beca let her hand drift through chocolate curls before the light sounds of Spork’s breathing lulled her to sleep. Maybe the little dog wasn’t  _ that _ bad.

xXx

Just kidding. He was horrible.

Beca woke up (at seven-freaking-am) to Spork barking. She groaned and covered her head with her pillow, trying to drown out the high-pitched noise but it didn’t work in her favor at all. “Amy, get your goddamn dog––” She cut off when she remembered that Amy was gone for the weekend with a literal clown act named Bumper and she had to look after her dog that was named for a kitchen utensil. She wasn’t sure when her life turned into one of the comedy movies Jesse loved, but she didn’t like it.

She rolled (read: literally  _ rolled _ ) out of bed, flopping onto the floor and groaning again. Light streamed in through her window. It was actually sunny, unlike it had been the rest of the week. It was how LA weather was  _ supposed _ to be and that made Beca’s bad mood marginally better at best. Wrapped in a blanket and wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a loose tank top, Beca scooped up Spork at the front door and trudged downstairs. She got some weird looks from some of the people at the bar, but she decided they couldn’t judge her––at least she wasn’t drinking alone at 7am on a Saturday. 

Stacie grinned and waved at her as she pushed open the back door and let Spork out to use the restroom. “Got a hot date, Mitchell?” she asked with a wink, taking in Beca’s appearance.

Beca growled in response––she literally growled––and flipped off the taller girl.

Stacie laughed and held up her hands in surrender. “Down, girl, I’m just messin’. You on Spork duty, then?”

The DJ looked out the porthole window to see the little ball of fur going number two on his little patch of grass. “Yep,” she said casually, popping the ‘p’. “I distinctly don’t remember agreeing to this, either.”

Stacie rolled her eyes as she cleaned a glass behind the bar. There were a few customers there, but they all had full glasses, and Stacie didn’t seem particularly concerned if they ran out. Beca learned early on that Stacie’s customer service didn’t actually matter. She had certain…assets and wore low cut tops to accentuate her strengths. A week of tips for her equalled Beca’s bimonthly paycheck.

“Relax, babe, it’s just for the weekend. I can come over later tonight with pizza and wine,” Stacie suggested. She gave Beca a (not-so-subtle) once over. “You seem so tense lately, B. Maybe once you’ve showered, I could…help out with the stress, you know?”

“‘Help out with the stress’?” Beca snorted and opened the door, snatching Spork before he could wreak havoc on the bar and its patrons. “Something tells me you’re not thinking of giving me a back massage and being my personal therapist for the evening.” 

“What gave it away? The wink, the way I checked you out––even though you look like a disaster––or the sultry undertone of my voice?”

Beca scratched her chin and feigned thinking. “I think the mix of all three really tied it together, yeah?”

Stacie shook her head and grinned. “So, we doing this or what, Mitchell?” she snapped, but there was no real bite in her tone, rather it was playful.

“I love when you get all hot and bothered, Conrad,” Beca said with a smirk as she walked back toward the staircase.

“Bite me, Beca!”             

“Save the bedroom talk for tonight~” Beca singsonged over her shoulder before letting the door to the staircase shut behind her. 

Back in her apartment, Beca filled up Spork’s dog bowl with water and food. He wasn’t yapping as much now and Beca was satisfied with her job well done. Except now it was 7:15am and she was wide awake on a Saturday morning. That was five hours earlier than she  _ ever _ got up on Saturday and she knew she would regret it later. (Especially if Stacie made good on her word.)

She opened some curtains, letting some natural light filter in while starting a pot of coffee, then setting to work folding the clean laundry that covered the living room. She only did hers and tossed Fat Amy’s into a hamper because Amy never folded  _ her _ laundry, and Beca was petty. Folding all the laundry seemed to take  _ hours _ (read: it took twenty minutes) and coffee was a godsend once Beca was finished. Coffee wasn’t good for her singing voice and she knew that, but she wasn’t going to be mixing or singing or doing anything today. It was an off day, she decided. She’d take Spork on an afternoon walk and pick up lunch at the little bistro down the street. A day in with food and grudgingly taking care of Spork and (hopefully) a late night with Stacie. Things could have been worse.

After two mugs of black coffee and idly petting Spork while watching reruns of Brooklyn Nine-Nine, Beca pushed off the couch and showered, hoping to waste some time before lunch. To her disappointment, by the time she was (semi)ready, it was only going on 10am.

Beca groaned and plopped down on one of the stools at the island. She put her head in her hands and blew out a breath. It was weird, not having Amy around. And she usually worked Saturdays, but Key had given her the day off, and Beca needed it. Boredom, though, was not a feeling Beca was accustomed to since moving to LA.

Through her fingers, she could see Spork standing at the threshold between the living room and the kitchen. He was looking at her, puppy dog eyes set, tail wagging. 

“What?” Beca grunted.

Spork (surprise, surprise) didn’t respond.

“Do you need something?”

_ Bark! _

“No.”

_ Bark! _

“Not happening.”

_ Bark.  _ (This  _ bark _ sounded more conversational. Could barking even  _ sound _ conversational?)

“I’m not taking you on an early walk, Spork,” Beca said sternly, wagging a finger at the dog. In a moment of clarity, Beca stopped moving and looked at the dog, then her finger, then back at the dog. “Oh my god, I’m talking to Spork like he’s a person, that’s so queerballs, what is happening to me,” she blew out in one exasperated breath and ran her fingers through her hair. 

Spork barked again.

“Fine!” Beca went to her room and took of her sweatpants, opting for a pair of red skinny jeans with a royal purple camisole and dark blue button-up tunic. Her hair had dried in soft waves and it wasn’t too much of a disaster, thankfully. After putting in her earrings and applying a bit of makeup, she grabbed Spork’s leash off the hook next to the front door. She kneeled down and the small dog scrambled at her. “Is this what you want? Yeah? You’re a pain in my ass,” Beca grumbled as she attached the leash to Spork’s collar. “After this, you’re going to the pound.”

Clearly, Spork wasn’t at all threatened by Beca because his tail just wagged even harder and he even jumped up and licked her face.

“Oh, dude, gross,” she said as she wiped her cheek, but a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. (If anyone would point this out to Beca, she’d vehemently deny that it was because of the small dog and say it was because she watched a bike messenger wipe out in the middle of the sidewalk.)

The day  _ was _ obscenely nicer than it had been for the past week, so there were a lot of people out. The streets were more crowded than usual and the hustle of the sidewalks had doubled, it seemed. Beca usually just looked like an unhappy person though, so people dodged her when they saw her ear spikes or her heavy eyeliner or her general day-to-day scowl; they all worked as a foolproof repellent for human interaction. 

What  _ didn’t _ work as a repellent for human interaction was the small, excitable ball of fur she was walking, who attracted literally everyone’s attention. Beca cursed humanity’s affinity for adorable animals. (Not that she’d ever admit that Spork was adorable. Don’t be absurd.) She was asked an array of the same questions ranging from Spork’s name (“Oh, that’s…that’s unique!”) to his birthday (“How can you not be sure?”) to how she knew he was ‘the one’ (Beca had said in response to that particular question, “Dude, he’s my dog, we’re not, like, married”). Really, it was ridiculous. Beca didn’t need this.

It usually took her ten minutes to walk to the bistro alone, but she’d only made it to the first corner of the block with Spork. Rolling her eyes at the sheer amount of people cooing at her–– _ Amy’s _ ––dog, Beca squared her shoulders and stopped stopping for questions. Seriously, she was getting hungry and this was getting out of hand. The spotlight wasn’t her thing. (Another reason she was thankful DJ Young Grasshopper’s identity wasn’t well-known.)

Beca got to the bistro––finally––around 10:30. Dogs weren’t allowed in the restaurant, so Beca tied Spork to a bike rack and bent down. “Stay here, don’t pee on strangers, don’t lick strangers, don’t…don’t interact with the strangers. Got it?”

Spork licked her nose.

Beca sighed. “Of course you don’t get it, you don’t speak English…Jesus Christ. Just behave for, like, two seconds!”

Inside the bistro, Beca was hit with an array of smells ranging from homemade soup to bacon to fresh coffee. Her stomach growled at the thought of food. The bistro was a small business, privately owned, but they got a  _ ton _ of customers. The food was all freshly made and it was run by some Germans who had a serious knack for cooking. Luckily for Beca, she was in early so she wouldn’t have to wait a long time for her takeout order. She got a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich on a bagel as well as two fresh baked dog biscuits for Spork and a four shot iced Americano, because there wasn’t such a thing as too much caffeine in Beca’s book.

She pulled out her phone while she waited and frowned as the screen lit up. There were two missed calls from her dad and a rather ominous text.

**Dad:** Stay inside.

_ Stay inside? _ What the hell did that mean? Beca rolled her eyes and didn’t bother to respond. It was her father and she hadn’t listened to anything he’d been saying for the last twenty years of her life and she was fine. No point in starting then, right? No harm, no foul.

There were no new texts from Amy, but she had a snapchat from her, and one from Stacie and Jesse that she opened and fired off a quick photo of the counter of the bistro in reply. The one from Amy was just a black screen with some text, letting Beca know she was safely in Vegas. Beca wasn’t sure if being safe in Vegas was really an attainable concept, but she let it slide. Amy could take care of herself.

Beca’s food only took ten minutes at most. She thanked the cashier and gave him a twenty, having him keep the change. When she stepped back outside, she frowned instantly. It was quiet, except for the chatter of the crowd and the sound of cars in the street. No high-pitched yips. She zeroed in on the bike rack. Spork was  _ gone _ .

“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me…” Beca mumbled. “Spork!” she yelled, ignoring the confused looks she was getting from passersby. (She  _ was _ yelling the title of a forgotten kitchen utensil––she’d look at herself like she was crazy too.) “Spork!”

_ Finally _ , Beca heard a faint bark coming from the alley beside the bistro. A wave of relief washed over her. If she lost Spork, she would have never heard the end of it and probably would have had to deal with a lot of tears. (And yes,  _ maybe _ a few of her own.  _ Maybe _ .) He was annoying but he was her and Amy’s son. Her responsibility, even if just for the weekend.

The alley was empty––of course, who would be in an alley midday––and Spork was nowhere to be seen, but his barking was getting louder.

Beca rolled her eyes and walked down the alley to round the corner where the squirrelly little pup was probably hiding. “Spork, what the–– _ HELL _ !”

The little DJ screeched, drawing out the expletive as she was grabbed from behind, a large hand covering her mouth, dropping her food and drink. (She had  _ really _ been looking forward to that Americano…) Oh, no. No fucking way. She was  _ not _ going to get kidnapped because her stupid dog decided to take a trip down the wrong alley. Beca kicked blindly behind her, making contact with a kneecap and biting the hand of her would-be captor at the same time. She heard a grunt of pain, and the grip around her loosened––loosened enough for Beca to break free.

As she went to run, though, she tripped.  _ Of course _ , she fucking tripped. Her head made contact with the pavement with a sickening crack and her vision blurred as she was rolled onto her back. Her head felt dizzy and there was hot liquid running down the side of her face. Above her, there were three figures. A man and two blonde women. One––the man––said something in a language she didn’t recognize, but it was low and guttural sounding. One of the blonde women responded.

The last thing Beca saw was the object in the other blonde woman’s arms––a small bundle of fluff that yipped once before she passed out.

Amy was going to  _ kill _ her.

**Author's Note:**

> PPPPS, do any of us know Beca's dad name for sure? A lotta fics use Warren, but I don't have a source so I used Henry but...whatever.
> 
> Drop a kudos and comment if you enjoyed and come yell about Bechloe with me over on Tumblr @theocarchitect!


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